The sun beat down like rain on a tin roof. I steered the Mystery Machine, a
beat-up VW bus, through the heavy traffic on South 10th Street. I drove,
while Shaggy, Velma, Daphne and Scooby-Doo got psyched for our undercover
assignment at the convention center. We're cops, and damn good ones, too. The
AC was busted again, so we rolled down the windows for fresh air. Scooby-Doo
hung his head out to let his tongue flap in the breeze like a drippy pink
dish towel.

"Rucking hot ray," he yipped with that wacky speech impediment of his. But he
expresses himself well enough for a Great Dane. We all had the same gripe;
fucking hot day indeed.

We were working vice around the convention center at S. 10th and Highway 83.
Think of the area as the French Quarter with a Mexican accent. Conventioneers
in goofy hats, bored after a day of seminars and exhibits, would hit the
streets to sample big city sleaze, available 24/7 no cover charge from strip
clubs, tattoo parlors, cantinas, rescue missions, curio shops with pinatas
and sombreros imported from Mexico, Internet cafes. Depending on what
convention was in town, a steady stream of urologists and oilfield-supply
salesmen rubbed elbows with hustlers, preachers, aspiring mariachi musicians,
dotcommers, chicks with dicks looking for tricks looking for kicks. Our job
was to keep the hookers and pushers in line, in part by disrupting demand.

Oh yeah, my name is Fred Jones. Captain Jones, if you please. I'm the
handsome one in our crew. If you don't believe me, just ask me. Tall, blond,
sharp dresser. I pack a .38 on my hip and four-and-a-half inches of rock-hard
manmeat between my legs. Norville "Shaggy" Rogers is the tall guy with the
dinky beard and uncontrollable appetite. Velma Dinkley's the freckled, brainy
partial to orange turtlenecks (Princeton grad, of course) and dorky glasses.
Daphne Blake is the looker with the tight dress, long blonde hair, lots of
spunk, an ass that could stop a sundial. Scooby-Doo is our canine support, a
crotch-sniffing killing machine when he's on duty. He's just a big puppy
around his friends. And he's got a great sense of humor. I crack up every
time he pins me against a wall and starts humping my leg, yelping, "Scoooobie
dooobie dooo!"

We pulled into the Denny's parking lot across S. 10th from the convention
center, next to El Bano Loco Motor Hotel. That's one of the places where the
local pavement princesses like to take their new friends. We work decoy to
put the fear of the Lord into tourists, write them a summons, chew 'em out
for spreading disease and decay, then tell 'em to zip up and ship out or the
next time they'll spend a memory-making night in the jug.

"The stale baloney sandwiches are the BEST part of the experience there," I
warn them. "And God help you if you drop the soap." By that point the guys
are so rattled they don't do anything riskier than spritz their fajitas with
three-alarm salsa.

By the time I pulled the Mystery Machine into Denny's, Daphne and Velma
were dressed to thrill. Daphne wore a tight maroon halter top with her
boobs peeking out the sides, like naughty kids peeking around the corner
of a house. White pedal-pushers hugged her hips and had her panty lines
screaming "Hey look me over!" She wore open-toe spike heels, which in no
way impeded her speed at chasing the bad guys. A silver Star of David
pendant dangling in the Rio-Grande-sized valley between her breasts
concealed a microphone. A small purse held her badge and service pistol,
along with cuffs and cosmetics.

"You got the makings of a swell weekend in your purse," I once told her,
hoping to stoke her interest in some one-on-one quality time, which had
never happened.

"The makings of a swell weekend are in my panties, not my purse, but thanks
for the compliment," she said sweetly. "And I'm washing my hair. Maybe later,
big guy."

Velma could never match Daphne's blinding blondeness. But Velma's own
undercover M.O. worked just as well. She created dress-up characters - hot
to trot cheerleader, rancher's daughter in from the sticks - that appealed
to the jaded johns seeking something exotic.

Today she was Cowgirl Velma, topped by a straw cowboy hat with a flouncy
feather wedged into its calico band. Her freckles seemed to pulsate in the
shade beneath the brim. She wore a rhinestone-buttoned cowboy shirt with
applique cactus on the front. Only two button held the shirt closed, with
the shirt tails gathered together and knotted tight across her ribcage, so
the bottoms of breasts pressed against the cottony material. Next came the
cutoff jeans that barely covered her ass cheeks, then - this drove 'em
wild - polished pink Justin boots that almost reached her knees. Never
underestimate the sexual power of accessories. Combined with the tiny
shorts, the boots made her look incredibly exposed.

"OK, officers, you know the drill," I said when we parked. You'll go work S.
10th in front of the Bano Loco. We've got you wired and Shaggy and I'll
monitor the conversations from here in the Mystery Machine. When you get a
bite, go to room 34 - we've got the usual cameras and audio there. Two
patrolmen will be in room 35 to make the busts."

"Speaking of bust, how does my costume look?" asked Velma, retying her cowboy
shirt to it hugged her even tighter. I gulped. I never realized her boobs
were so, so, cantelope-ish, round and firm and tan, fresh from the harvest.
Only two little pearly buttons separated me from all those sexual nutrients.
Get a grip, Fred, I thought.

"Your costume should work well, Officer Velma," I said in my most official
voice, then winked.

Shaggy stroked his chin pubes thoughtfully and eyed Daphne and Velma in their
cock-rocking glory. "Boy, I'm gonna need a Scooby snack real soon, looking at
you gals," he said, his frustrated sex urge sublimated into endless munching
(I took a psychology class to get my gold shield, so I know all about
sublimation and oedipal complexes and penis envy).

"Boys, we're all business, you know that," joked Daphne, putting her arm
around Velma, her hand slipping into the cowboy shirt to squeeze Velma's
nipple into hardness. "Right, Patrolbabe Velma?"

The skin beneath Velma's freckles reddened. She closed her eyes and bit her
lower lip. "Daph, baby, I'm gonna pay you if you keep that up. My kootch is
about to jump out of my britches and run around in circles it's so happy,"
she moaned. Acting? Real? "OK, I'm ready. I can't get too turned on right
now - that's against the hooker's code of ethics. We've got to look and act
authentic, or we'll blow our cover."

"You can blow my cover," I said, without thinking, the kind of comment that
could get me hauled before the diversity and tolerance screws, but I didn't
care.

"Oh, Fred, but your cover is so huge, it would take both of us!" chortled
Daphne, applying another layer of fire-engine red lipstick. "And you'd mess
my make-up! OK, Velma, let's go shake some twat out there and see what comes
running."

"I've got to tell you, Shaggy," I mused as we settled behind the video
monitor as Velma and Daphne toddled off down S. 10th Street, a hot,
salt-watery breeze off the Gulf fluffing Daphne's hair. "Those are two
dedicated policewomen."

"I don't know about you Fred, but I could use some pizza about now. What
about you, Scoob old pal?" asked Shaggy, throwing some greasy potato chips
down his gullet.

"OK, head's up you skanks," I said, peering out the darkened window of the
Mystery Machine. Daphne and Velma had positioned themselves in front of El
Bano Loco, next to the newspaper boxes. They laughed, waved to truckers
hauling carrots and onions up 10th after crossing the river, and before they
attracted the interest of two guys in short haircuts and whistles around
their necks - no doubt in town for the football coaches' convention. "Tall
one's named Randall, the short one's Bobby," I whispered to Shaggy, licking
the potato grease off his fingers.

"BROCK?" I almost shouted. "No football coach in the state's named Brock.
That's a band director's name."

Shaggy and I had an ongoing contest to guess the names of perps. It can be
done, if you look at enough goonies trying to score some twat. "Six pack of
Corona says neither of them is named anything like Brock."

"Deal."

The two johns strolled toward Daphne and Velma. From the Mystery Machine I
could see they both had boners just from the prospect of taco time on the
border. Yessirreebob, those good old boys were snorting up the aroma of some
mighty fine flesh enchiladas.

So they thought. Really, they were just greaseballs who didn't think anybody
was looking while they cheated on their wives, girlfriends and, given how
many of them spouted off about their status as role models, their students.
Sometimes, as I watched the guys make their moves, I'd think, "Christ, just
go back to your hotel and whack off to a copy of Juggs, for Pete's sake." But
they never did, and the boys, girls and dog of the Mystery Machine had to
clean up the mess.

Shaggy, Scooby and I heard the deal go down. The two coaches were already "un
poco borracho" - a little drunk.

"Well, hello, little lady," said the tall one with the careful tone of a
drunk trying to sound sober. "Mighty hot out here today."

"Not as hot as on the inside," said Daphne.

"Inside of what?"

Daphne leaned over and patted Velma's crotch.

"Yowchies," she said in a silly voice. "That's what's hot."

The little guy licked his lips.

"Maybe we can cool things off for you two gals."

"There's air conditioning at El Bano Loco," said Daphne.

"Cold enough to make your titties hard," said the tall one, a statement more
than a question. What a crude jerk.

"I don't need no AC for that to happen," said Daphne.

"Maybe some cold cash would make it happen faster."

"Now you're talking, stud."

Before they entered Room 34, I told Shaggy, "Switch on cameras two and
three." See, we had the hotel room completely wired for sound and video,
high quality color, none of this fuzzy ATM observation junk tech. Switching
from camera to camera, we could record evidence and keep the girls safe.
The system also had an intercom for two-way communications.

The coaches discovered the only things hard were the steel cuffs slapped on
their wrists by the two cops who burst into the room from an interior door up
our signal. Daphne and Velma didn't even get their shirts totally unbuttoned
before the guys were cuffed and babbling it was all a mistake, too much to
drink, they were doing research, please don't tell our wives. They got the
royal verbal reaming, summons that would be dismissed and erased if they
stayed out of trouble in our fair city - permanently - and their names were
Dennis and Dicky. So, Shaggy and I both struck out. No Brocks and no Coronas
this time.

As day faded to evening, the sun slipped behind the towering Gulf Coast
clouds in the west, fluffy piles of cumulus that were pink, amber, orange.
The clouds sailed west as darkness spread over our town and the surrounding
ocean of mesquite and cactus. Daphne and Velma reeled in more fish, the
prowl-car boys netting the catch. I stared out a window of the Mystery
Machine and picked out shapes in the clouds. I sighed.

A huge paw fell gently on my shoulder. Scooby-Doo sensed my restlessness and
the longing behind it. "Runts in the rouds?" he woofed.

"Yeah, cunts in the clouds," I replied. "Here, there, everywhere, but never
for me."

"Rough ruck, baby," he replied.

"Just a dry patch," I said. "Thanks for the rupport, uh, support." Yikes, I
was starting to sound like Scooby. Next thing you know I'll be licking my
balls in public.

After four hours of fishing our shift was ending. No more fluffy cunts sailed
through the sky, and my attention turned elsewhere. "I could sure use some
food," said Shaggy, as he finished a bag of onion nachos. "Grab some dinner
at Denny's?"

"Sure, Shag. Scooby?"

"Ruckin' A," said Scooby.

Daphne and Velma drifted back from El Bano Loco, looking none the worse for
their pavement pounding. In four hours they had bagged 35 johns, generated
summons worth almost $4,000 for the municipal coffers, and barely broke a
sweat. They'd been doing the work, but Shaggy and Scooby and I were the tired
ones, after being cramped in the Mystery Machine doing observation. Daphne
and Velma got to dress up, go undercover, swing their bodalious asses on the
street, while we were stuck with . . . management.

"Care to join us?" I asked them as we stood outside the Mystery Machine.
"Always good grub at Denny's."

"We'll pass," said Velma, tilting her cowboy hat back. "We'll grab a bite
with the prowl-car boys at Tito's Tacoteria." Tito's Tacoteria was the best
Mexican food joint north of the border, a favorite of tourists and locals
alike.

"In those outfits?" Shaggy asked, eyeing their nipples poking through the
shirts. "You want to give the winter tourists from Iowa a coronary?"

Daphne wrapped her arm around Velma's neck and sucked on her earlobe. "Sure!
Let 'em die hard and happy!" she said, grinding her thinly covered cunt
against Velma's bare thigh.

"OK," I said, locking the Mystery Machine. "Let's meet back here in 90
minutes then head to HQ to file our reports."

The good people at Denny's gave us our corner booth, so Scooby could stretch
out on the long, curving orange couch. The service was fast, and we were out
in an hour, unusually fast for one of our dinners. After a spin through the
streets, we circled back to the Mystery Machine, parked in the Denny's lot.
We were a half-hour early.

We figured Daphne and Velma would return later. We were, after all, early.
"Man, those leftovers sure smell good. I could go for some of the refried
bean and rice," said Shaggy.

"Food sure must have been different when you were on patrol in Kandahar, hmm,
Scoob old buddy? Special Forces treat their top dog right?" I asked. Scooby'd
been called up for Reserve duty.

"Rood rucked rig-time," Scooby-Doo complained.

"Sorry to hear that," I said, "Hey, when I was doing that peace-keeper gig in
Bosnia . . . "

Before I could finish we saw images move into on view on the monitor, still
covering room 34 at El Bano Loco. Three of the cameras were turned off, but
one remained on, located at waist level beside the room's TV. "Cleaning
lady," I shrugged.

"Rook closer," said Scooby, his razor-clawed paw tapping the 25-inch color
monitor. "Turn on all the cameras, pull back on the sweep view," I told
Shaggy, our tech whiz.

Another view popped onto the big screen. Who had walked into the room but -
Daphne and Velma. "Don't they know their shift is over?" I asked. "I hope
they don't have a line of johns waiting outside. Let me call and tell them
we're already back here."

"Un momentito," I said. "Police work doesn't seem like what's on their
minds."

The girls' voices jumped into the Mystery Machine. "Gosh, Velma, too bad the
prowl-car boys got that emergency call. I'm glad we could do take-out. I've
never been in this room except on duty. You know, for a sleazy border joint,
it's not too uncomfortable at all," said Daphne. "I love the pictures of the
kids with the big eyes." They took containers out of plastic shopping bags
and put them on a night table next to the king-sized bed.

"No, I'd much rather be here than at Tito's, especially since our shift is
over," said Velma, pulling out a bottle. I couldn't read the label.

"Here, I have a surprise since it's the weekend," Velma added. "A bottle of
Mexico's finest, Mezcal de Oaxaca."

Daphne's eyes widened. "You mean the booze with the worm in it? How
thoughtful! We're going to have a party!"

"As long as we want," said Daphne. "We'll call the boys later and say we're
delayed and we'll catch up on the paperwork tomorrow. They're cool on that
stuff." She was right. In undercover work, odd bits of work and leads always
crop up and demand attention, so we're used to going off in strange
directions.

"I feel fine, but after a day of playing dress-up and driving Fred and Shaggy
crazy - you saw how turned on they got, didn't you? - I feel more hot and
bothered than nice and relaxed."

Velma turned on the bed. In the Mystery Machine, Fred, Shaggy and Scooby
heard the bed springs squeak, saw the light flash off Velma's glasses. "You
know, Daphne, the more you talk, the more I feel the same way." She paused
for a heartbeat. "Daphne, could you suck my earlobe again?"

"Love to." Daphne slid toward Velma, so their thighs touched. She put one
hand on the side of Velma's head, drawing the smaller woman toward her.
Bending slightly, Daphne brushed her lips against Velma's ear, running her
tongue around the outside. Velma closed her eyes as the tongue sent lightning
bolts from her ear to her breasts to her cunt. Daphne rolled the earlobe
around her lips, tugging on it like it was a nipple, using her other hand to
trace circles on Velma's thigh. Her fingers wandered the sensitive border
between the cut-off blue jeans and the bare smooth flesh.

"Jinkies, you know how to suck an earlobe," breathed Velma. "Can an earlobe
get a hard-on?"

"We could invent a line of vibrators for ears," mused Velma. "They could
combine sexual gratification and fashion in a scientifically sound manner.
Think about earrings that sent electrical pulses into the earlobe . . ."

"Velma?"

"Yeah, Daph?"

"How about we just fuck and think about the commercial implications of
earlobe sucking later?"

Velma abruptly shifted. Now Daphne looked surprised. "Hot and bothered, you
say?" She leaned over and kissed Daphne on the lips, lightly, not a sloppy
smooch but connection that mounted in intensity. "I specialize in hot and
bothered."

Their lips stayed connected while Velma brushed the backs of her hands over
Daphne's chest, once, twice, three times. On the last pass she reached behind
Daphne to untie the knot of her maroon and white halter. The fabric fell
free, like a curtain rippling over a stage setting of Daphne's curves.

"Why, Daphne Blake and Velma Dinkley! Who would have known you weren't just
acting out there today," I said as Shaggy, Scooby-Doo and I watched the
monitor. I flicked the view from one camera to another. "They sure know how
to end a shift."

"Man, I've got my eye on that take-out from Tito's Tacoteria on the table. I
can practically smell the frijoles!" exclaimed Shaggy. He flipped on a camera
and zoomed in on the food containers.

Daphne and Velma fell back on the bed. Still kissing, Velma slid her hand
over Daphne's stomach to trace circles with her red-tipped fingernail around
Daphne's belly button. We could see Daphne's stomach muscle tighten and relax
as Velma made the lazy circuit. "Oh Velma, the place you're touching gives me
the goosebumps," she gasped.

"We can't let them do that!" said Shaggy. "It must be against the law or
something, or at least departmental regulations."

"Two consenting adults, shift's over, I don't see any infractions, Officer
Shaggy," I said in my best police captain voice.

"'If rove is a crime, then I plead guilty'," yelped Scooby.

"Huh? What's that, Scoob?" I asked. He rarely had such sophisticated thoughts
on his mind, although, come to think of it, neither did Shaggy.

"Ralvin Klein's Obsession ad, you dunce," he replied. His articulation was
improving, I noted.

"Cool it and let's see what happens," I said. "Or you can take a hike."

"Not 'til I know what happens to all that Mexican food."

We didn't have to wait long. While Velma made ever-widening circles on
Daphne's stomach, Daphne unknotted Velma's cowboy shirt. She unsnapped the
few remaining buttons and the shirt fell open around Velma's breasts, which
more than ever reminded me of fresh-from-the-field cantaloupes.

"Jeepers, you've got pretty boobs, Velma!" exclaimed Daphne, breaking the
kiss and propping herself up on one elbow. "Girlfriend, it's time you stop
wearing those thick orange turtlenecks. Save those for your Princeton
reunions. They don't do a thing for your figure. Your boobs look so yummy
I've got to have a taste right this minute." Daphne leaned over and lightly
kissed the hardening nipple.

"That was a nice little Scooby snack. May I have another?" asked Daphne in a
teasing tone.

"Fill yourself up, you starving little minx," said Velma, grabbing Daphne's
head and guiding it to her breasts. While she sucked she moved a hand up to
remove Velma's black plastic glasses. As her head pushed towards Daphne's
mouth, Velma's glasses went askew.

"Allow me to make you more naked," whispered Daphne, removing the glasses and
putting them on the nightstand.

"Oh, Velma, anything (lick) you want to see will be (slurp) right in front
of your (nibble) nose before long," said Daphne as she moved her head from
breast to breast.

"God that feels so good," moaned Velma. "I never knew how great it would feel
to be with you. I've wondered, you know."

"I have too, ever since we were teenage crime fighters. I always wanted to
put the moves on you but there was always another ghost or werewolf or alien
zombie mystery to clear up and they kept screwing up my plans."

"I'm so glad we finally joined a real police force and can carry guns and
arrest people and read Miranda rights," said Velma. Her hand encircled a
breast while the other caressed the back of Daphne's head. "You know what
would get me even more turned on? Could you smear guacamole on my nipples
then lick them clean?"

"What a fabulous idea! I'd love to." Daphne reached to a small container,
popped the plastic lid, then scooped some guacamole with her fingers. With a
look of concentration she dabbed it on Velma's hard, brown right nipple. We
saw her hips, still in the cut-off blue jeans, squirm.

"Ahhh, it's so cool and refreshing, just like a spa treatment," said Velma.

As Daphne began licking, she reached down to unbutton and unzip the jeans.
Before long the jeans and panties were down around Velma's shiny pink boots.

The girls' erotic heat was literally fogging the camera lens. No, actually
Shaggy's heavy breathing was fogging the monitor. "Man, I can't stand this
any more," he panted. "I can't believe what those girls are doing. I gotta
get out of here."

"You gonna go jack off in the Denny's restroom?" I asked - not a bad idea.

"Hell no, that'd get ME arrested. Nope, Scooby and I are going to get some
snacks. I'm gonna faint if I don't get something to eat. Come on, Scoob!"

"Ruck no, I'm staying right rere," snarled Scooby.

"Fine, I'll bring you some Scooby snacks - maybe," yelled Shaggy over his
shoulder as he bolted from the Mystery Machine. I took over the controls
while Scooby curled up in the other chair, watching - if not understanding -
the sight. And what a sight. Tall and short, white and tannish, long blonde
hair and short brown hair - but 100 percent pure sex appeal. By the time
Daphne had the guacamole licked off Velma's nipples she had also palmed
Velma's cunt with her right hand, pressing her palm against Velma's clit,
easing her cunt lips open with her fingers. Velma was bouncing up and down
on the bed so much that Daphne barely kept her lips and fingers engaged at
the same time.

Just as the last green bits of guacamole vanished, Velma's breathing got
quicker. "Finger me hard, Daphne," she said.

So Daphne did, Velma's legs sprawled wide with the cutoffs and orange and
black panties swinging from one ankle. Suddenly Velma wrapped one arm around
Daphne's head and pressed her other against Daphne's hand covering her cunt.
"Now, please!" she gasped and bucked back and forth. I zoomed Camera One
onto Velma's face as she came. Her nose scrunched up adorably, while sweat
plastered her brown hair around her face. "Camera Two," I murmured out loud,
snapping to a view of Velma's crotch gyrating under the two hands. Once Velma
passed the first yelping bouncing waves of orgasms she came a couple more
times, and I loved the way Daphne guided Velma gradually up and down, using
her hand like a pilot would, shifting the cunt-lip ailerons - and aren't cunt
lips just like an airplane's flaps? - to guide Velma from the stratosphere
down to a smooth landing on earth.

I leaned back on my chair. This was intense, and I sensed they had just
started. I checked my watch. They had 15 minutes until they were supposed to
be back to the Mystery Machine. Should I call them? I decided to wait.

For a minute Velma and Daphne lay panting, Daphne still cupping Velma's cunt.
I could see the wet, curling hair sprouting from between their intertwined
fingers. Daphne pulled her Velma's earlobe.

"Well, now I know," said Velma.

"Know what?"

"What it'd be like to fuck you. The closest we ever got before -- can you
remember?"

"The shower room at the academy?"

"Hmm, close. That's when we got to check each other out. But real contact,
that came during training. It happened during physical training, when Fred
taught that class on how to subdue a perp," recalled Velma. "Remember? We
were partners, learning how to break holds and do takedowns. The first time
I broke your chokehold and tossed you down and sat on your back to put the
cuffs on you, well, I creamed in my pants. The rush totally too me off guard.
My panties were soaked. Now you know." I could see Velma blush through her
freckles.

"Sweetie!" Daphne replied, stroking, Velma's hair. "I never knew! I thought
that was really sexy too, the way you just, well, took me."

"Like you just did to me?"

"Yeah!"

"Tell me how you like this." With a lynx-like quickness Velma sat up, grabbed
her glasses from the side table, flipped Daphne onto her stomach, pulled off
her white pedal pushers, untied the neck of the halter, and sat on Daphne's
thighs. "Ohh," said a surprised Daphne. "This is a new kind of takedown
move."

Velma leaned down. Brushing Daphne's hair to the side, she kissed Daphne neck
while she held her shoulders. "I like to think of it as a cumdown. You'll
see, Daphne. I mean that literally. Stay right there." Velma jumped up and
disappeared from the frame of the video. In 20 seconds she returned with the
large wall mirror from the bathroom. With Daphne still on her stomach, Velma
propped the mirror in front of Daphne's face leaning against the headboard.

"Now you just stay nice and wet and keep your eyes on the mirror, OK?" asked
Velma; she spread Daphne's thighs and sat between them, her bare cunt rubbing
against Daphne's wet white panties. Daphne thrust back to rub against her.

"I'm putty in your hands," promised Daphne, resting her head on her crossed
arms. The big mirror gave her a perfect rear view, so she could see Velma
hovering over her.

Velma rubbed the back of her hand against Daphne's cunt through the panties,
then raised her fingers to her nose. "Ummmm-mmm, there's a lot more than
putty on my hands. Smell." She put her hand in front of Daphne's face.

"Don't stop now," she whimpered, wriggling her ass back so it touched Velma.

"Who said anything about stopping?" asked Velma. "Your back and ass are so
sexy, but they look a little dry. Let's see, how can I make you a little
wetter? Oh, I know," she said, reaching toward the night stand for the bottle
of Mezcal de Oaxaca, still two-thirds full with the reddish worm bobbing
sleepily at the bottom. "A jigger of mezcal baby oil should do the trick."

First Velma pulled off the halter, then she tipped the bottle so a few
dribbles, then a stream, drizzled on to Daphne's back, from the neck down her
spine to her tailbone. Putting the bottle on the night stand, she smoothed
the mescal across the back, ribs, right down to where the pantyline - but
no further.

"Oh my God, did you learn massage in the academy? That feels fantastic,"
groaned Daphne. Her blonde hair was pulled over to the side so, from the
camera, I had a fine view of her neck and shoulders, which positively
glowed under Velma's touch.

"I've been practicing on Shaggy."

"Gross!"

"I'm kidding."

"That's a relief. He didn't seem your type."

"What is my type?"

Fred, yes? Sturdy, hung-like-a-burro Fred? I was started to feel a little
left out of the party.

Velma, sitting between Daphne's thighs, pushed down on the dents beside
Daphne's tailbone with her knuckles, rotating her fists in unison.

"Hmmm, you're making me make a puddle in the bed. The aroma must be going all
the way back to the Mystery Machine. Not that it could penetrate the smell of
junk food."

I took a whiff. Daphne was right. The Mystery Machine smelled like the place
where junk food goes to die. The smells of burgers, chicken, Mexican food,
greasy French fries and spilled soft drinks all slopped together in one rank
odor. I jotted a note to schedule a cleaning at the departmental garage, just
in case Daphne and Velma wafted some more eau de twat my way.

"You know, Daph, you drove me so crazy with the guacamole I think it's only
fair to return the favor."

"Sure, just don't put guacamole on my ass."

"Right place, wrong food. Wait and see." Velma scooted back a bit to ease
Daphne's panties down to knee level. Then she picked up the mezcal bottle,
took a little swig, and poured some directly down the crack of Daphne's
spread-open ass. I zoomed the camera in; she twitched from side to side as
the liquid flowed languidly downward. Her asshole cupped a few drops, the
rest drifted and disappeared into her cunt. I flipped the camera up and
down, just enrapturated - is that a word? - by the vision of moist,
squirming, moaning Daphne. If those girls ever decided to start hooking for
real, they'd make a fucking fortune, or maybe a fortune fucking.

"Now this is what I call a Scooby snack," Velma said playfully. "I'm hungry
all of a sudden."

I was riveted, but Scooby had curled up on the floor, nosing a huge bag of
corn chips. His crunching dueled with the popping kissing sounds pouring
through the speakers. I flipped from camera to camera. Every angle was a
treat: Daphne opening herself like a gift box for Velma's tongue and
fingers; Velma's fogged-up glasses, coated with Daphne's cunt juices;
Daphne's twat and asshole pulsing like - what? - flowers, supernovas,
portals to another dimension? Hell if I know - I majored in business, not
philosophy. I just liked what I saw.

As did Velma. By now she wore just those cowboys boots. She had grabbed
Daphne's hips hard, like was ready to bulldog her in a rodeo, but instead
of throwing a lariat she threw her face right into Daphne's rear, kissing,
licking, slowing down to slide two fingers into Daphne's cunt. I tried to
zoom in, but when I got too close everything became indistinct, one big
image of hair, flesh, holes and fingers swirling together and apart. I
pulled back in time to see Velma lean back and take a deep breath, like an
artist admiring her work in progress.

"Pretty," she panted. "Very, very pretty. How you doing down there?"

"Mmm," gasped Daphne, her face and chest on the bed with her ass still high
in the air. "Can't talk. Too (pant-pant) turned on. Fuck me just a little
more, OK?"

"All righty. I'm gonna get you over the top. Hold on to your g-spot, mi
chula." Velma pushed forward on the top of Daphne's ass crack, pulling the
flesh tight. With her other hand she slid her middle and index fingers in
and out of Daphne's cunt, slowly.

"Really? How 'bout this?" In a flash Velma licked her other thumb, and
then pressed it flat against Daphne's throbbing asshole. "Now I've got you
covered." Velma kept the same steady, unrelenting pace, in with the fingers,
then firmly press with the thumb, again and again and again while she bent
over and kissed Daphne's hands and ass cheeks.

"Mmm," moaned Daphne. She caught her breath, panted, and then looked in the
mirror. "Oh, Velma, look in the mirror while I'm coming," she said. As Velma
raised her head their eyes locked. Even as Daphne bit her lower lip and held
her breath, Velma's eyes went wide and she bucked her hips forward. Funny
thing, MY hips started shakin' a little, too.

"LookatmelookatmelookatmepleasePLEASE," cried Daphne. She thrust hard back,
so Velma, now a cowgirl than ever, had to hold on tight to keep from getting
thrown off the bed. Daphne pushed back, Velma pushed forward, and suddenly
the two collapsed on the bed with a rush of happy gulps and pants.

I realized I had been hyperventilating, but took a few deep breaths and my
pulse began to slow down. Scooby raised his head from the corn chip bag. He
eyed a spreading wet spot on my pants, then woofed, "Spill romething on your
pants, Fred?" I looked down. Umm, I hadn't spilled on, but rather in, my
pants. Well, wasn't this special? I felt like I was back in junior high
school, as my sticky jizz crept down my pants leg.

"Something like that, Scoob old pal. Something like that."

Daphne and Velma were utterly wiped out. They sprawled on the bed, sheets
kicked to the floor, holding hands with their legs thrown over each other.

"Oh Daphne."

"Oh Velma."

"You blew me away."

"Ditto."

I pulled the camera back. They were whispering to each other. Silly girl
stuff, I imagined. Then they turned their heads and looked directly into
Camera Two.

I looked around the room. They couldn't see me. That was impossible. "Hello,
Officers Velma and Daphne, are you there? Over?"

"Come on, Fred, we know you're in the Mystery Machine watching," said Velma,
nuzzling up to Daphne's still-throbbing pinkish nipple. "Don't you think we
can tell when the cameras are rolling? We work here too, you know."

"Ahhh, I just walked in and . . . "

"Liar, liar, cock on fire," scolded Velma. "We could see the red 'active'
light blink. AND, don't forget this place is wired for intercom. When we
left to go get dinner we never turned it off. Remember? We were talking
two-way when we all left. We never disengaged it at this end. We know that
Shaggy got turned on looking at the food and had to go get a bite."

Boy, that had me by the balls this time. I felt a hot blush spread over me.

"You could say that."

"Could we say, you came in your pants?" teased Velma.

"You could say that, too."

"Oh, Fred, that's so sweet! The three of us came together. Talk about a
team-building exercise. They should try that at the academy. Don't be
embarrassed," said Daphne. "We're not embarrassed."

"Well, OK. Just don't say anything about it at the station house."

"Same for you about us, right?" said Velma.

"For sure."

"Now let's all turn off the cameras," said Velma lightly. "Daphne and I will
close up shop here and catch a ride home from the night shift cops working
the Convention Center area. We'll do our paperwork tomorrow. Then Daphne and
I are going to do some research on earlobes. So say good-night, Fred."

"Good-night, Daphne and Velma. Have a good weekend."

"We will, we will," said Daphne. "My cunt's already bouncing back. Oh, we
forgot to do something." She turned the mezcal bottle upside down and shook
the worm on to Velma's palm. Velma pulled it in half and handed a section
to Daphne. Then, like newlyweds with cake, they fed the worm halves to each
other.

"You know, Fred, the legend is that the worm makes you horny," purred Daphne.
"Patrolbabe Velma and I are going to check that out as soon as we get to my
place. I know it's either true or extremely true."

As I flipped the switched to turn off the cameras, the door to the Mystery
Machine opened. Shaggy climbed in with a big bag. Scooby-Doo jumped up and
sniffed the bag. "Man, did I score some primo Scooby snacks at Denny's. I'm
glad I left you and those two gals to get some grub. Fred, you OK? You look
a little spacy."

"I'm OK, Shaggy. Just a little tired. I guess I am hungry."

"Now you're talking, hombre." He began to pull containers from the bag. "Care
for some guacamole?"

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